The Shattered Glass
by chicadoodle
Summary: When Harry Potter is kidnapped by a lone vampire, secrets are revealed - and the lives of Dudley Dursley and harry Potter himself are irrevocably changed forever.
1. Chapter 1

The world shattered. Bits and pieces lay scattered about him like so many pieces of shattered glass. The shards glittered around him, each distinct and brought into horrifying clarity.

His aunt lay dead at his feet, her arms now limp from where they had grasped at her own throat. Her eyes stared sightlessly ahead, as uncaring for him as they had ever been in life. This was the first shard.

His cousin cowered in the corner, his heavy bulk having tipped the television over so that it lay on it's side, doing nothing to hide the teenager. In his cowering form lay the second shard of his splintered reality.

A third shard existed in his uncle, even now held against the wall by the man who had caused so much mayhem. Vernon Dursley's face was purple now, not with the rage that was so common to the man, but with the desperate need for air. The man whose preternatural strength held him in place, however, seemed in no mood to give him that reprieve.

Harry Potter - The Boy Who Lived, The Boy Hero, The Last, Great Hope of the Light - lay sprawled on the floor, staring up at the man in shock. His small stature belied the strength with which he had so easily subdued the Dursley household, and for once in his still-young life Harry found himself frozen with fear.

Fear was not a new emotion to Harry, but he had always found that the true test of ones character came in how they faced their fear. Now, however, it was all he could do to continue breathing, his limps frozen in place as he watched the man - dark of hair and eye, pale of skin, short of stature - smirk coldly at the fear evident on Vernon Dursley's face, splotched with color and a desperation that only those close to their own death could understand.

A twist of one powerful wrist and all the expression faded from Vernon's face, however, his bulky form sliding to the floor, and Harry finally found the strength to move as he scrambled on hands and knees to place himself between the dark-haired stranger and his cousin.

The man paused, cocking his head to the side and watching Harry with a spark of confusion. "You would protect this one, after all that he has done to you? Years of torment, of humiliation, and yet still you protect him."

Harry blinked in surprise, lips parting slightly.

"But then, you have your mother's kindness in you." The man stepped forward, sliding his fingers through Harry's hair. Harry found himself once again frozen in place, and it was only now entering his confused and cloudy mind that this fear, this inability to move his own limbs, was not natural. That this was _not a man at all_.

This man - _or whatever he was -_ had seemingly appeared out of nowhere as Harry had been carefully serving breakfast. Not that he was ever careful enough for his relatives, of course.

Both Harry and his uncle had barely spoken to one another this quiet morning, and for that Harry had been grateful - perhaps this would be a good day, after all. There were so few of those in his life, that Harry counted his blessings every time one showed promise of appearing.

But then this man - this _thing_ \- had come, and everything had changed. His guardians lay dead mere feet from him, his cowering cousin the last surviving relative of a boy who had never truly felt a part of even his own family. For one who had known little affection in his young life, he would protect his remaining family with his last breath - whether they appreciated that sacrifice or not.

Standing to his full height, the _creature_ gave a small twist of his lips - an almost-smile that had Harry's heart skipping a beat for what it could possibly mean. "Her compassion was her downfall in the end, you know. And it will be yours, as well."

Dark eyes skipped over to the still-cowering form of Dudley, and Harry's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't hope to protect himself from this … whatever he was … let alone his protect his cousin.

"But then …" cold hands pulled Harry to his feet, curling around his jaw to force the terrified child to look at him. "Her compassion was her finest quality. It is that quality in her that I always cherished the most." This time, the smile that curved his mouth was genuine. "That you should inherent this from your mother … take pride in that, little Potter." Straightening, he turned cold eyes once again on Dudley. "But you're compassion will not save your cousin."


	2. Chapter 2

When Harry woke, it was to a dreadful pain in his stomach that seemed to radiate to every inch of his being; his bones ached, his skin burned, and even as he attempted to open his eyes he encountered nothing but darkness. It was when he raised his hands to actually inspect his face, to ensure that his eyes really _were open_ that he discovered the true reason for his lack of sight, and it took only a moment after that for true panic to set in.

Smooth wood met his fingers, encasing him on all sides; he could feel it pressing in against his arms, now, and could touch it with his bare feet if he stretched out his body just enough. There was no escape from it, and suddenly all those horror stories that Dudley used to revel in came back to haunt him; stories of being buried alive, slowly suffocating beneath the ground where nobody could hear his cries for help.

Harry had never been particularly good with impulse control. He could only assume that he had inherited this trait from both his mother and his father, since his Aunt Petunia and his cousin Dudley suffered from the same lack of planning or foresight in most of their endeavors. So when his mind finally caught up to what his senses were telling him, he reacted with the first impulse that came to him.

He completely lost it.

There wasn't enough room to allow him to truly bang on the wood above him, so Harry was left to claw instead, sharp pain radiating from his fingers as he did so. Harry had never been a screamer as a child - not like his cousin Dudley - but he now found that he had a rather impressive set of lungs on him as he did his best to scream as loudly as he could. He reached a rather impressive decibel level, even if he was unaccustomed to raising such a racket.

In the end, however, the fames Boy-Who-Lived was reduced to choking sobs as his throat burned and his chest heaved. A more rational mind might have noticed how strange it was that he did not run out of air, if he was indeedd buried beneath the ground. Harry, however, had never been particularly logical in his thinking - he acted on instinct, and right now his mind was screaming at him to _get out_.

Arms dropping heavily down to his sides, Harry's choking sobs continued for some time - how long, he couldn't be sure, as there was no way to tell time in his wooden prison. He wished, suddenly, that Dudley was there with him - if only for the boy's watch. The darkness was oppressing, more so than his tiny little cupboard under the stairs had ever been. One could almost imagine that it continued on forever, this darkness, this void.

Eventually, however, even his sobs quieted. What was left was a silence so oppressing that Harry once again felt his heart rate speed up, his breath hitching painfully in his already raw throat, fingers pressing against the wood covering above him.

Now, as the more rational part of his brain began to take over, those fingers began questing; moving over the wood searching for anything they could exploit. He wasn't particularly surprised when he found nothing, but still he continued to search, ignoring the pain in his fingers, the scratches upon the smooth wood surface that he had left behind with his own frantic clawing.

Hysterics still waited, just below the surface, threatening to break out at any moment. It had become the not-so-silent mantra of the Boy Who Lived, muttered just beneath his breath . . . 'Just stay calm, Harry. Stay calm. You're aright. Just stay calm." Over and over again, different variations of the same command given unto himself; just stay calm. It was only partially effective, however, and every now and again a small sob would hitch in his throat, threatening to break free and send him into hysterics once again.

Eventually, his arms exhausted, Harry left them slip once again down to his side. It was hard to tell, now, if his eyes were open or closed; it made no difference, the darkness all around him was so all-encompassing.

And so he drifted, exhausted by his own hysterics.


	3. Chapter 3

Just above The Boy Who Lived, only separated by the thin wooden paneling of the casket in which the young boy found himself trapped, a man smiled thinly. He lay stretched out upon the top of the casket, ankles crossed over one another and hands folded across his stomach. With his keen hearing he had detected every whimper, every cry, every scratch the boy had made upon his prison, and it brought a small smile to his lips, his dark eyes glinting maliciously.

He had been uncertain how Lily's son would react to his imprisonment upon awakening, but he had not been disappointed. In fact, he had been pleasantly surprised by the ferocity of the boy's reaction; he had worried so, after witnessing his quiet demeanor when interacting with his relatives. Perhaps there was hope for the boy yet.

As movement once again started up beneath him, the man's smile widened. If his timing was correct - and he had no doubt that it was - then the boy would only now be experiencing the pain - pain that would only grow worse as time went by. He was young - his body was resilient, and there was little fear that he would not survive the transformation that his body was only now beginning to endure. The more elderly among them sometimes experienced setbacks with such a transformation, and there had been those who had not survived it at all. But no - this boy would pull through. Of that he had no doubt.

The coffin was not strictly necessary - many among his people would have looked unfavorably upon him for the use of such a tactic. Many were Turned in more opulent settings, their bodies given time to adjust and their minds at peace as they slept through the majority of the pain that was now gripping the boy beneath him.

Then there was his age - so young, to be Changed in such a way. His body would never age again, though his mind would grow by leaps and bounds. In a more nurturing setting it would, anyway.

Lily - sweet Lily - had found herself loved by many of his kind, if only because she treated them with dignity and respect. She had given her own blood on more than one occasion to feed the youngest among them - something that many humans would never have even considered. Her selfishness and kindness had gone a long way toward endearing herself to his people, to the point where it had been forbidden to cause harm to either her, or her kin. Her death had been a hard blow to accept, and there were many who claimed that she should have been Turned, herself.

But it had all been too little, too late.

But this was her son - her own flesh and blood, her direct descendent. So much of Lily lay in this boy, and not just her blood. There was her kindness, her impulsiveness, her courage. Here, he had the chance to witness one such as Sweet Lily twisted under his own hand, to witness what she might have become with the correct . . . _provocation._ He would face sanction for his actions when they eventually came to light - of that the had no doubt. But he would face these consequences when the time came to allow others near his sweet new child, and that would not come for some time.

Allowing one hand to slide from his chest, the man tapped lightly on the top of the coffin upon which he lay - and which held the body of one Harry James Potter. The sound - the first that had reached Harry's ears since he had first woken here - jerked the boy from his sleep. It had been several hours since he had fallen into an exhausted slumber, but as the tapping came once again he renewed his earlier struggles with earnest, calling out desperately.

Chuckling, the man slipped from the top of the coffin to throw it open with one great show of strength, the wooden lid flying to the other side of the room with a resounding crash. The noise startled Harry, and he froze in the act of attempting to push on it himself.

The light was blinding at first, and Harry blinked rapidly up at the man before him. It was the same man who had broken into the home of his aunt and uncle, of that he was certain. Amused blue eyes met Harry's own frightened green orbs, and Harry instantly attempted to push himself back, away from the creature who had already caused him so much pain and anguish.

It was all for naught, however, as the man grabbed hold of his wrists with a soft laugh, forcing him back down into the coffin with a devilish grin. "You didn't really think it would be that easy, did you?" He asked, the mirth evident in his voice. With one hand extended away from his body, he held Harry down easily with the other, the in-born telekinetic abilities of his vampire kin lifting the heavy wooden lid of the coffin and bringing it to hover in the air beside them, while with the other hand he forced Harry back down into the coffin.

"I've broken others in a matter of days, you know. How long will it take with you, I wonder?"

And then he was gone, the lid of the coffin slamming atop him before Harry could attempt to push his way up.

His screams, muffled by the coffin, rang into the silence of the night.

. . . . . . . .

The pain of a vampiric transformation was something to behold. Under normal circumstances, one chosen to undergo such a transformation would have been made comfortable within the confines of one of their Houses. Vampires were not, as a whole, a cruel species. Was the farmer cruel as he tended to his flock? The shepherd when he sheared the wool from his sheep?

But there were those among them who, as the years had pressed down upon them, had found their humanity slipping through their fingers. Some clung to it's tattered remnants from a sense of self preservation, if nothing else. But there were others who had gone by another path; for whom the loss of their humanity, their moral compass, had been a liberation of sorts. Sadistic and cruel, such individuals were invariably discovered and cast out. To be alone among the undead was a fate worse than death.

It took two weeks before news of his disappearance - and the death of his relatives - to reach the friends and surrogate family of Harry Potter.

Two weeks of pain, hunger and darkness. Two weeks trapped in a cold, dark coffin, unable to move. Two weeks of silence broken only by the occasional appearance of his tormentor - blinding light as the lid of the coffin was thrown off, strong hands wrapping around him arms, his throat, his chest to pin him immobile.

Sometimes those hands were nice; sometimes they carded through his hair, or brushed against his face with a surprising gentleness. But more often than not, they were cruel; hard touches that he was certain left bruises, though it was too dark to tell for sure.

It was always dark when Harry's eyes were given a glimpse of his tormentor's handsome face, and he did not have the presence of mind to wonder why he could see those handsome features quite so clearly. Where in the beginning fear had been the driving force behind his lack of cognizant thought, as the hours and days passed it was hunger that replaced it.

Harry Potter had been hungry before. His 'care' under his relatives had ensured that he knew what it was like to go without food for days on end, and it was only his internal magic which had allowed him to survive their tender mercies as long as he had.

But this was different. This hunger was somehow different - somehow MORE. It consumed him in a way that human hunger never had. His entire world had narrowed to that one singular need - the need to feed.

He didn't understand, in those first weeks, that it was not food he craved; the food that had once given him sustenance would do nothing for him now. It was blood he craved.

His tormentor knew all of this, of course. Knew that the pain of his hunger would drive him to do things he never would have thought himself capable of knew. Knew that there was only so far a vampire - whether young or old - could be pushed before their mind fled in the face of their hunger.

Friend, foe, family, enemy … None of these things would matter, once the Hunger took over. Once his human mind left him, and the beast inside was unleashed for all to see. He would lose everything in the face of that hunger.

It would be glorious to behold.


End file.
